


One Night in New Orleans

by iskra667



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskra667/pseuds/iskra667
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In autumn 1990, shortly before Tale of the Body Thief, Lestat, depressed and lonely, receives a short visit from Louis …</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in New Orleans

**Author's Note:**

> M/M relationship, explicit content (including non-consensual act against an unconscious person and consensual but edgy power play), references to drug use, killings, swearing

The Vampire Lestat here et bla bla bla … Been there, done that, sung that song.

The year is 1990. I am sitting on the wooden floor of my penthouse apartment on Dumaine, leaning against the open French window, basking in the delightful warm breeze of an early autumn night in New Orleans. From outside, riffs of jazz, mortal chatter in a variety of accents and exotic languages, the occasional drunken brawl and strident laughter. And the heady smell of flowers from the balcony. It is the time of the year when my adoptive city is at its most seductive. Gone the scorching heat and sticky, suffocating wetness. Now is a time of flowing, caressing warmth saturated with the sweetness of the luxuriant flora. But always, lingering underneath, the pervasive sickly smell of rot. Cunningly disappearing at times, as though to trick the innocent into illusions of a never-ending tropical bliss, only to surge mercilessly, grappling at their nose, reminding them of the tick-tock of their personal clock that drags them, days after days after days towards the ultimate victor: rot ! Some people prefer New Orleans in spring, but I don’t. I am a dead thing and no fool for promises of rebirth. I prefer this decaying purgatory cloaking itself in Eden’s finery. 

Yes, altogether, a city well suited for an animated corpse, busy dodging death for two hundred years give or take a few. How I had instantly loved these New Orleans autumns ! Nothing like the dreary climate of my mortal youth’s Auvergne. Scorching, dry summers with not a whiff of breeze, the mountains barring any wind from the ocean to ever reach this godforsaken place, the sun pounding on your head, driving you insane. The mountains barring anything from ever reaching this godforsaken place. Then cold grey rain pouring endlessly for weeks, soaking everything, and the fog above like a lead weight, blocking the only direction where your eyes could still get a feeling of infinity, the vague promise of escape: up ! Then, snow, meters high of it, and more falling from above, blurring any remaining sense of space, of perspective, into a whirling, muffled white cocoon. Damp soil, towering heaps of grey rock covered with endless miles of lurid green grass and the crooked, miserly trees that only are able to survive the harsh winters and above, fog, snow or scorching sun. If ever God intended to design a claustrophobic place … Pretty mountains for tacky calendar photographs. Not a place to live for a young mortal with half an ounce of wits. Give me swampland anytime. But enough of this sentimental crap. Was I turning into one of those annoying mortals unable to utter a phrase not starting with “As I said to my therapist …” ?

I had fed earlier, not on one of my prized criminals, but on a poor confused bugger unlucky enough to cross my path. Dirty strands of black hair, torn jeans, stained checked flannel shirt and incoherent mumble. Incoherent flickers during the swoon of the blood kiss. Swirling colors, fleeting melodies and vague mystical visions. The poor guy was probably high on some dodgy form of smack, cut with God-knows-what dubious chemical. Maybe that explained my brooding and somehow incoherent turn of mind. My victim. Probably one of those hapless mortals left behind by the great economic boom of this glorious century, existing like shadows on the margins of society, unnamed, unaccounted for, invisible even to the great, prying, blinking eyes of the myriad of computers that now dutifully recorded every single gesture of those worthy mortals fully integrated to society. 

But, hell, maybe he was a rock star for all I knew ! Thinking of it, he probably was one. He certainly looked like one. He sounded like one right down to his incoherent thoughts and ramblings. Oh, what a dreary decade indeed ! Gone all the glamour, the flamboyance, the joyful innocence of just 5 years ago when, briefly, I had hit the spotlight in all my glory ! Now were times of smelly unkempt young men dressed in thrift store rags, wailing their existentialist despair and the pointlessness of all things … Not unlike my beloved fledgling when I thought of it. The smelliness apart, that is. My darling always had the most delicious smell. Musky, spicy and the heady metallic undertone of his stubbornly pumping blood. And where was he, now, this delicious creature ? I had not seen him in weeks, the smug ungrateful brat ! What the hell was he doing now, holed up in this leaky decrepit shack of his, or wandering aimlessly in the rain, chasing one of those unfathomable pursuits I had once spent 65 exhausting years trying to figure. Utter waste of time. I had always remained puzzled as to what went round and round in his pretty head. Was he avoiding me for one of those crazy reasons he constantly came up with ? Was he just drifting apart, no longer needing me to make his way in this world ? This world which, lately, seemed to have embraced his turn of mind. Was he dismissing me as passé ? Dismissing me like my former mortal admirers, now relegating my music to the bargain shelf ? Yes, the harsh truth was: I was passé, and it is not a feeling The Vampire Lestat enjoys, believe me. No longer in touch with the spirit of those times. Such irony, really, that my Louis was now so well suited to be a Teenage Angst idol. He that had always drifted by the modern world, focused only on his very own interests and pursuits, oblivious to these ever changing fads that had always so enthralled me. An irony that would be completely wasted on him. I would first have to feed him a crash course in “Youth culture in the second half of the twentieth century” before I could hope to successfully lay the joke on him, and maybe, if I was lucky, glimpse this flicker of smile that had always been enough to lighten up my whole damned existence ! What would I not give, at this very instant, to see this smile ? To gently lick the perfect curve of his lips, knot my arms around his shoulders, delicately pushing the soft curtain of his black hair and bend towards his perfect ear to whisper the most outrageous obscenities … Obscenities that would make him blush, giggle or scowl, but yet, I would feel the unmistakable signal of his body quivering, radiating heat against mine … But instead here I was, rambling like an old man, alone but for the unmistakable sound of a drunk mortal getting sick in the street just underneath my window !

God, I felt it, it was going to be one of those night where nothing, nothing can keep the swallowing darkness at bay. Nothing but the kill, that is. The stalking, the hunt, the final approach. The savagery. The blood. And finally, the swoon. Yes, bring on the swoon. Mortals beware, for tonight The Vampire Lestat is depressed !

I was about to rouse myself from the floor, contemplating another round of carnage, this time unjustified by any dietary need whatsoever ... Perhaps go after the distasteful wretch who had just dared to soil my own little piece of sidewalk that way ... My piece of sidewalk in my city... Just then I heard the doorbell. I glanced at my watch. 1 am. Too late for religious nuts. Too bad. Delusional mortals make for a good snack. The euphoric taste of self-created ecstasy. Was the same wretch ringing bells at random, having somehow realised, through his drunken haze, that the public highway was no appropriate place to satisfy his tedious human needs? I bared my fangs in a feral grin. Meal delivery service. Nothing like the twentieth century! The bell insisted. Not in a mood for small talk, I crawled on all four like a wild cat, through the French windows onto the balcony, and peered between tendrils of Queen’s wreath to investigate the cause of the disturbance. A pang in my devilish little heart. Here he was, my Beloved. My elusive Beauty. Standing very dignified in front of my door, oblivious to the drunk still lying in his own waste in the gutter. I leaned closer, feeling the tendrils of vine caress my face and tangle in my hair, trying to see the expression on his face. But he turned his back to me as he rang a third time. I indulged in sweet fantasies. Was his marble face softened by a dreamy, expectant smile? Was his smooth forehead barred by a sharp sorrow line, as I failed to answer his calls? Or was he merely his cold, remote, unfathomable self, performing a duty call to his insane maker, perhaps considering it his burden on Earth to ensure his mercurial ward did not disrupt public peace too much? I considered staying right there and watch him walk away. Punish him for disappearing all those weeks. Punish myself for missing him that much. But as he made an imperceptible move to turn away, I knew I could not take it, the nagging incertitude, the raving loneliness drawing all sense out of me like a black hole, and I threw my mind onto the intercom button with all my might, the sheer psychic force of it knocking me backward against the iron lace of the balcony. Strange how such a simple gesture as mentally opening the door could drain all life out of me, while I effortlessly burnt mortals to cinders.

I dragged myself to my feet, checking my reflection in the French window. Faded black jeans fashionably ripped at the knee, white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled at the elbow. I just could not go for those awful lumberjack shirts ... I gave a vain shake to my hair, artfully arranging for a “stray” lock to fall over my right eye, the way I had always suspected he liked, and made my way, bare-footed, inside the flat. The flat was its usual tasteful self. I may be a bloodthirsty demon, but a tidy one. At least when it comes to my own lair. Maybe, when Satan finally judges my darkened soul ripe enough for fetching, I will end up locked in a filthy student flatshare, scrapping burnt-out tinned mortal food from aluminium pans till the Last Judgement comes! How dreadfully terrifying. I picked up from the floor a discarded copy of Rolling Stone magazine, “Inside the Seattle scene” special issue, and tossed it open on the couch so as to look interrupted mid-reading. A few books were littering the Persian rug, the loot from my latest What-the-hell-are-thinking-mortals-up-to-these-days breaking-and-entering expedition at Tulane Bookstore up on McAlister. I swiftly kicked the offending objects under the couch, hoping they would not get too dusty. As if I would ever let my Beloved catch me with a book ! As a, hum, former (God, how this word aches!) celebrity and public persona, I do have standards to behold. A reputation to live up to. The Vampire Lestat is a shallow, flamboyant creature with the attention span of a goldfish and the emotional stability of a Rottweiler!

However, and that’s strictly off the record, not unlike another blond singer from the deepest white trash slums of Detroit, Michigan, I am what one might call a “closet intellectual”. I like deep books, crazy European films with no head nor tail and obscure music. But intellectualism with an edge. A cutting one, preferably. Not all the dreary pretentious crap that secretly bores everyone without ever offending anyone. So, obviously, since said shallow pretentious crap constitutes most of the current production, my tasteful fussiness greatly limits the extent of my intellectual pursuits. Conveniently leaving plenty of time for gazing at my gorgeous self in the mirror, driving the Porsche around over the speed limit, bawling along with the stereo and stalking petty criminals for a midnight snack. Sometimes, I even think NOPD should give me a medal for driving down their crime rate like that. But no, trust mortals to take all the credit. Hell, if I was to believe half the stories I’ve heard, I’d bet I’m not even the bloodiest Bad Cop round here. Life is so unfair sometimes. Anyway, enough rambling. Did I ever tell you this story about previously mentioned blond singer? No I did not. It was cut from my little memoir on the forceful advice of my lawyer Christine. One of the few people whose advice I actually listen to. Just like my Beloved is my conscience made flesh, I like to view my mortal lawyers as my common sense made flesh. I know some hard-working ambitious characters, chiefly dear old Marius and my Beloved Beauty, have been after that job for long, but somehow I find mortal lawyers more fitted to it. After all, shouldn’t common sense be learnt from common creatures? Rather than from evil freaks of nature with too much taste for philosophy for their own good? And what is more gloriously common than ambitious, greedy mortal lawyers, with their worship of rules rather than moral imperatives, and their healthy interest in television, golf and financial speculation? Maybe I do have more common sense that I’ve usually credited for after all. And exactly why my Beloved so craves the job of Common-sense-made-flesh, when he already works so much overtime in the ungrateful job of Conscience-made-flesh for so little reward, save a few taunts and the odd shouting fit, I must admit that beats me ! But back to the point once more …

Back in the good old days when my videos were looping every hour on MTV and one could not set foot in the street without staring at my gorgeous face plastered ten folds on each and every wall, a journalist made a grave mistake. Some despicable rat from an unworthy publication I do not care to name wrote a little piece, shamelessly claiming that not only did I have very little musical sense, but my whole stage persona and singing technique was, allegedly, directly plagiarized from said singer from Detroit! Along with my professed inclination for tragic arty gentlemen of European sensibility (the illiterate fiend had obviously managed to read my book somehow, or, more likely, had it read to him by his ghost writer ...) and ... my hair style ! Now, let me get something straight ... My musical abilities and artistic taste, come on and throw mud at them! You are more than welcome to it! Am I not, after all, a lewd and rowdy French peasant only interested in the most immediate earthly pleasures? As to the inclination in question, well, I must admit that, on my darkest and most introspective nights, the idea briefly came fleeting to my mind that still lusting after someone who tried to kill me twice, and actually left me twice for prepubescent lovers well below the age of consent (at least in mortal years …) might appear as slightly pathetic to the casual observer ... Of course, anyone with an ounce of sense would immediately realise that it is not so, but, to be fair and magnanimous as I always strive to be, I cannot begrudge the uninformed for briefly entertaining the idea, however ridiculous ... But there is one thing in the world that I cannot abide, and that is derogatory comments on my hair! I am afraid I am quite fastidious about this particular point. Hell, I’m over 200 year old and I practically invented the whole decadent androgynous act! All those prancing little brats should pay me royalties every time they go about parading on stage! And here was that miserable scribbler, pretending I had nicked it from some bloody white trash Yankee! That, I’m afraid, simply would not do. Oh, I had met the fiend, even had his business card left from some press conference or other. He had grovelled enough at that time, probably trying to get into my pants and the article was some form of petty retaliation for being ignored (he had ginger blond hair, and I do not care much for blondes, apart from Mother. As for redheads, well, they tend to scare the bejesus out of me …) . But that, I’m afraid, still was no excuse. My prize kill, in those days, was a successful drug lord, a chemistry genius, inventor of many sought after designer drugs with far-out effects, and also a flamboyant personality, pet dealer of the jet set. His diary was full a year in advance and getting him to attend your party was the surest road to success for any pop star wannabe. In short, both brains and style, just as I like them. I had been following the guy around for a month or so, reluctant to part of his pleasant company but, when the offending article came out, I decided the time had come to strike and save a generation of Californian health freaks from the detrimental effects of drug use. I stalked my victim from a party just off Venice Beach, led him towards the night and his end, and took him in the sand. A glorious moment. Communing with his bright and twisted mind, feeling him fight me, curse me, yet all the while recognizing me as a soul mate, reverently drinking in his considerable life experience to the last drop. I gently laid his empty shell on the sand and watched him for a while, as I do with the worthiest of my preys. I probably watched that one a bit longer than usual, experiencing firsthand the effects of his unique talent with chemistry. And when I said far out, my friends, well, all I can add is that, guilty as this fiend was of many crimes, false advertising was not one of them... Alone and friendless as he was, like all really successful criminals, I had no doubt he would be sorely missed and mourned by hordes of millionaire junkies all over shiny happy California... Dawn was almost there when I finally regained my senses. I quickly picked up his body, cradling him to me like a lover while racing the Harley back to central LA, and dumped him in a garbage bin outside a certain press office, leaving my journalist friend’s business card conspicuously in his shirt pocket ... I do not need to tell you the scandal that followed. Just go to your local library and consult the archives of the papers, as I did back then every evening, grinning the merciless grin of Rightful Revenge! I was so proud of my brilliant cunning that this little story made it to the first draft of my autobiography, much to the Christine’s horror as I already mentioned! Was I out of my mind, confessing like this a current crime, even just for play? Confessing to be a 200 year old demonic mass murderer, fair enough, but that was an utterly different kettle of fish! Of course, I was French, eternal homeland of irreverence and black humor, but I was to understand that this was America, land of the Brave and the Worthy, and one did not joke with such things without incurring serious trouble. I sensed that this little joke was turning into some grand drama and far more trouble than it was worth so, reluctantly, I let it go. It resurfaced a couple of years later though, in some harmless pillow talk when I was indulging in my favorite pastime: trying to shock the wits out of my Beloved and get him to rant at me with this fanatical stare of his that makes his already magnificent eyes so entrancingly lethal! Well, my little joke may not have won me the Pulitzer, but it did earn me the sight of this most gorgeous spectacle! And that sight, above all things, is utterly priceless and worth everything in this miserable world. Was I not the most petty, despicable creature, getting an innocent mortal to risk jail like this, all for some imaginary offence to my over inflated ego?! And nag nag nag … In short, my Darling was not amused. Well, I was, and is it not the most important thing? That is, until half an hour later when, having regained his composure (it was, after all, an old mischief and, for those of you merciful souls who worry about such trifles, nothing untoward happened to the damned scribbler, save a night of well deserved cold sweat in the basement of LAPD), my Adored started caressing my hair in this very special way that drives me to my knees and, carefully studying a lock between his graceful fingers, uttered thoughtfully “You know, my Love, you do drive yourself into absurd fits sometimes… Looking at it, I’m sorry to say this journalist probably had a point …” Ah, Louis, Louis ! You always knew how to thrust your merciless dagger into my enamored little heart!

But, right now, I could hear light, graceful footsteps resonating rhythmically in the stairway out there, the high ceilings of the old house lending this very domestic noise a menacing echo of vague foreboding ... Unless my very own mindset did that … The echo stopped. Uncanny silence. The raucous noise from the street, of course, and always, always, the maddening chatter of the myriads and myriads of mortal voices … But right now I blocked all that, my world, just now, solely revolving around the faint echo of his presence. This echo, always menacing to fade and fade into nothingness, suddenly disappear into the night, leaving me to face the world alone, swirling and swirling for eternity into a never-ending black hole … Then a soft, polite knock on the wooden door. He had his own key, of course. But somehow he never used it. Always knocked. This maddened me. Maddened me to the point that I almost pretended to be busy. But then, of course, I did not. I never did, did I? I opened the door and here he was. Not a desperate fantasy from my raving lunatic mind, but a preternatural-flesh-and-blood gentleman with messy hair and garments that had seen better days.

“Good evening, Lestat.” He said in that soft, polite, maddening voice of his, his Mona Lisa smile faintly playing on his perfectly shaped lips.

“It’s actually morning, my Dearest.” I replied acidly. Which, to anyone not familiar with our ever-so-subtle private way of communication, would translate as not-only-do-you-snub-me-for-weeks-you-wretch-but-when-you-do-favor-me-with-your-oh-so-precious-company-you-deign-not-even-grant-me-a-proper-night-but-show-up-a-mere-5-hours-before-dawn.

“Is it?” he replied with his trademark expression of perfectly black brows softly arched in surprise, his voice innocently puzzled. And without further ado, he gracefully stepped over the threshold, silently closed my door and leaned forward to place a quick, chaste kiss on my lips, his right hand briefly squeezing my shoulder.

This would not do, of course. My left hand firmly grabbed the loose waistband of his black jeans while my right hand gently lifted his silky hair to cup the perfect curve at the back of his neck, and I pulled him to me for a proper kiss. I felt him comply easily enough, the weigh of his slender frame gently leaning on my chest. Tentatively, I felt hands snaking around my waist and in my mind’s eye, I pictured his white, long fingers knotting together at my back to encircle me. Tightening my hold on his neck, I hungrily covered his mouth with mine, roughly prying his lips apart. He happily granted me access, as, to be fair with him, he most often did, gently responding to my passionate kiss as his tongue softly traced the inner line of my lips. It’s in those brief moments of stolen bliss that I remember how perfect he is. His slim build neatly fitting within my tight embrace without ever straining my arms, yet his well defined muscles giving the satisfying feeling of holding, not a fragile porcelain doll, but a powerful, slippery, almost reptilian and ever fascinating creature. His height perfect, just a few centimetres shorter than mine, so as to allow me to whisper directly in his ear without bending, and granting me the satisfaction of arching his head backward before kissing him from above. The delicious, thrilling, illusion of control which, with his contrary habit of deciding the when, where and how long, I would otherwise so easily loose, ending up face to face with the harsh reality of being constantly led on by a viciously cunning sex-kitten. Sweetly enough, he was (most of the time) happy to leave at least the how up to me. See what I mean, now, when I speak of vicious cunning?

But now I felt the unmistakable signal of his breaking away, not a direct struggle, no, only the mere stiffening of body under my touch. I could break him, hold him, crush him to me and never, never let him go but strangely, I realized that, deep down, I had no real desire to do so. I claimed his tongue one last time, possessively sucking on it in a childish display of power, then, reluctantly, gently drew back and let him slip out of my hold. His hands slid from my waist in the subtlest hint of a caress and he looked up at me with such boundless loving and trust that I almost felt my wicked heart break. For a mere fraction of a second, he looked radiantly happy, and the full weight of all the cruelty, idiocy and foolishness I inflicted on him threatened to crush me. The grief of not seeing him so radiant more often. Then, so quickly it almost seemed an illusion, his face reverted to its peaceful, serene self, and he turned round gracefully, taking both of my hands in his, pulling me behind him.

He led me in an aimless wander around my own flat, as though guiding me through it, stopping here and there to briefly stare at whatever took his fancy. An amusing little quirk of his. I fondly called this little routine “Louis’ very own 20th century tour”. Tonight it quickly came to a stop, as he apparently made no discovery to berate me about or fascinate himself with. He let go of my hands to turn and face me, then quickly got hold of them again. 

“What have you been up to?” he asked very casually. Before adding in an almost suspicious tone “Anything I wouldn’t do?” As though the lack of any new gadget of mine for him to inspect was proof enough that I had been up to no good. Well, let’s see ... Serial pyromania, repeated arson, mass execution, aggravated domestic violence against common-law spouse and complicity of parricide with recidivism and, last but not least, disposal of a body in the intent of covering up a first degree murder with premeditation ... Well, unless my mind was starting to let go after 200 years, I could not recall being up to any of those recently, let alone to something he would not do... Well, apart from the murder thing, maybe.

“No my Love, I’ve been most virtuous ...” I replied innocently, deciding against raising any of the aforementioned sore points... Swinging his hands at our sides in a childish little dance to mark each word, I added: “Redeeming my soul, ridding the streets of dealers and thugs, and all that crap ... I even helped an old lady cross Dumaine yesterday ...” That was even true. I have a thing with little old ladies. Not a sexual thing, just a thing.

“I see”, was his non committal response, and he let go of my hands to start fumbling in the pocket of his oversized, slightly faded black jacket, his hair falling over his face as he frowned in concentration, sorting through the scraps of paper scribbled in his neat handwriting and all the other nondescript mess littering his pocket. God, he looked magnificent in all his dusty, dignified beauty! All the poet wannabes whiling the days away scribbling bad verse and drinking bad wine down in the cafés of Faubourg Marigny surely spent an hour every morning, prancing in front of their mirror in the vain hope of approximating this very allure that my Louis effortlessly achieved every day simply by picking up whatever was lying around closest to hand in his decrepit shack! I felt a strong urge to ravish him right here and now, but I knew that would only irritate him and drive him away. Better to go along enthusiastically with whatever pursuit he had in mind for tonight, keeping him occupied until dawn, until I could not, in my responsible maker’s heart, let him rush through town back to his own lair without fearing for his safety and I had to consider it my Duty in front of God, Satan, the ancient laws and all that I (do not) hold sacred to keep him safe by my side for the day! Translate: in my bed and in my arms and, if possible, naked. This little trick had done the job several time, I knew it from experience. After a few decades, a disgruntled, sex-starved maker learns to be shrewd and manipulate their fledgling’s obsessive tendencies to their own advantages. 

“Here!” he said, beaming proudly as he finally extracted a video tape from his apparently bottomless pocket and handed it to me. “I brought you a movie, a bit of proper culture for you, so your brain doesn’t rot from disuse!” He grinned maliciously at his taunt, batting his eyelashes at me as though daring me to break our time record and start the first fight of the evening in less than 5 minutes of being together. I was not dim enough to bite though, despite my fledgling’s bigoted prejudice against blonds in general and me in particular.

“How surprising and how thoughtful of you!” I lauded acidly “I am overwhelmed by your concern and generosity!” I added, using it as an excuse to melodramatically hug him tight and plant a noisy kiss on the tip of his nose. He blushed slightly at my ridiculous antics, and I let him go and looked down at the tape he had given me.

It was a home recorded tape in a plain black plastic box, the title of the film and name of the director written in permanent marker on the edge. It was not Louis’ old fashioned handwriting, not mentioning the fact that he did not own a tape recorder, let alone electricity, which left me only to guess at the provenance of the tape. I noticed a suspicious brown smudge on the black plastic box and let out a small sigh. My Beloved had always been frightfully random in his hunting habits, killing whoever was unlucky enough to cross his path regardless of their prospects in life... I could well picture my Darling preying upon some hapless Tulane freshman stumbling through Louis’ part of town after a night of heavy drinking and philosophical talks, where a fellow student had lent him the very tape I was now holding in my preternatural hands, drunkenly praising it as the ultimate life-changing masterpiece. For all his professed veneration for Art and Culture, my dark child had no qualms about dining nightly on who might have turned out to be the next century’s Tennessee Williams or Elia Kazan.

Somehow my blond brain recognized the name of the director and I beamed proudly up at Louis, like a child persuaded that his wild doodle will win him a major art award. “Tarkovsky” I said, butchering the musical Russian word in an awful mess of French accent and Louisiana drawl “isn’t that the guy who made that biopic of your ex?”

He stared back at me in wide-eyed disbelief, as though the bottomless depth of my idiocy and shameless ignorance never ceased to amaze him after 200 years. Well, I was glad to be such an endless source of entertainment! Isn’t that an actor’s wildest dream, never to bore their audience? “You know, that film about that crazy icon painter who takes a vow of silence and all” I provided helpfully, since my otherwise bright child did not seem, this time, remotely able to make any sense out of my enlightened movie criticism... Now, the Imp taking a vow of silence, wasn’t that a very enticing prospect, I mused? And chastity as well while we were at it, I thought, casting a possessive glance at Louis and growling slightly under my breath. Some old wounds just never seem to heal properly...

“Andrei Rublev” he finally said, shaking his head slightly as the meaning of my words finally dawned on him. At least, it seemed his hard thinking had prevented him from noticing my little fit of jealousy. I nodded, beaming at him in encouragement as though he was my slightly retarded but nonetheless charming child. 

“This is called “Stalker” he said in a very patient voice, taking the tape from me and walking towards the VCR player, “and as far as I know it does not star anyone from the coven”. He sighed then, as though bracing himself for whatever insane way my crazy mind could possibly deconstruct the plot this time.

I made a move to take the tape from his hands as he dawdled in front of the TV a bit too long for my legendary patience but he took a step back to escape my grip and informed me in a dignified voice “I am quite able to handle useful technology, you know”, immediately proving his point by inserting the tape the right way. “It’s only your useless gadgets I can’t see the point of figuring out!” He made a vague gesture sweeping the whole flat, though what exactly he meant remained unclear since all my pointless gadgets were safely locked away in cupboard and drawers, forgotten and gathering dust after a few days of use...

He took the remote and seated himself on my couch, his back straight and his feet neatly aligned, the very picture of effortless dignity. I followed him and threw myself by his side, sprawling on all the remaining space, laying my arms and head on his lap. He smiled at me as I shot an innocent puppy look up at him, silently ordering me to behave and I obeyed, facing the screen as he started the tape. I squeezed his knee lightly and was rewarded by a hand starting to gently smooth my hair. Maybe I should behave more often...

Well, the film was not that bad, to be fair with him. At least it was not one of these dreadful French films he sometimes brought me, two hours of hearing some pathetic pseudo bohemians whining to the camera about whether or not they should fuck one another, and could one possibly realize what a painful existentialist dilemma that was? I swear I am not exaggerating! When I first saw those, I just could not believe how low Paris Rive Gauche had sunk! So low I spent the whole length of the film squirming in anticipation for the nauseating chemical soup that constitute the water of the Seine to come in a great rush, flooding the screen and my former city now well below sea level, condemning the annoying mortals to a slow, painful, and well deserved death, and offering your humble servant release from his boredom! Well, goddamnit, that never happened! Where are Hollywood blockbuster remakes when you need them? At least, a nice bloody catastrophe would have made the film almost watchable! When I was a bohemian in Paris, we did not waste our breath with such qualms, we just got the damn thing done and over with, and got on with our lives. I could not believe such a refined creature and deep thinker as my Louis could take such crap seriously. Sometimes, I swear he brought those over just to catch me yawn and fall asleep, and afford himself the worthy, sadistic pleasure of calling me shallow, unrefined, illiterate, uncultured and many other loving pet names… Do not be so naïve as to believe all the nonsense about gentle Louis, humble Louis, self-loathing Louis… He is a lofty egomaniac, getting huge kicks out of looking down at people from his moral high ground… And he would stop at nothing to indulge his obsessive perversion, even if he has to put himself through 2 hours of cinematic adolescent wanking guaranteed to offend his fine aesthetic sensibilities… Such a perverted, devious, decadent little wretch… How proud I am of my dark child when he plays me so!

But tonight’s film was none of the sort. Whatever perversions Louis wanted to indulge in (and I shuddered in delicious anticipation as I launched myself in wild guesses…), they did not seem to include berating me for my philistinism, though I had no doubt he would not turn his nose down on such a pleasant opportunity should it present itself to him. And was it not any lover’s most sacred duty to attend to attend to their Beloved’s pleasure, however perverted those might be? That’s why, gradually, as our trio of adventurers made their way deeper and deeper into the mysterious Zone, I slackened my grip on his knee, eased my breathing into the shallow rhythm characteristic of mortal sleep, laying perfectly still on my Beloved’s lap. Never in all this time did his hand stop gently smoothing my hair, so that my wild curls were soon as perfect as Veronica Lake’s. I idly wondered whether he had picked up a Femme Fatale kink during those dreary decades when I was slumbering pain and betrayal away under Lafayette cemetery… What an oddly arousing thought…

As I pretended to sleep the peaceful slumber of the ignorant, I stared raptly at the flickering screen. The drawback of my little performance was that I could not watch him watch the film, could not observe the subtle play of his thoughts and emotions affecting his fine features as he immersed himself so fully in the performance before his eyes. His thoughts were forever closed to me due to the wall of silence but after so many decades spent observing him immersing himself in Art or his own mind, I could guess his thought patterns all right. Here lied our curse maybe, so close we constantly second guessed each other, yet forever denied any glimpse of each other’s true self. Forever stuck with our imperfect visions of one another. 

Guided by the merest hints of his muscled thighs contracting beneath me, of his fingers clenching ever so slightly at my hair, I imagined, fascinated, how particular images prompted him to gravely ponder the fine balance between his own faith and wretchedness. The fine balance, forever swinging, pendulum like, that somehow kept him going this long. Shallow creature that I am, I have little mind for faith, save faith in my own lies. As to wretchedness, can he be truly wretched, he that forever remodels the world to suit his own whims? I care little for reality. I am reality. But what if this world I create for myself reflected but a terrible distortion of my wishes? A terrible distortion, the product of a whimsical, shallow mind with little inclination to introspection. Or, maybe, of a sharp, twisted mind, obsessively focused on its own annihilation. Constantly creating this nearly perfect, yet always disappointing, reality for the perverse pleasure of thwarting its own quest for happiness. Then I would be the most wretched of all creatures, wouldn’t I? For what do we know of our innermost wishes? I always saw myself as a simple creature. What have I ever chased but True Love and some sense of purpose, however delusional? No grand philosophical quest for me. Yet, when he, my True Love, my innermost wish, was so close to me, why did I always have to claw at him, to drive him away? Was my innermost wish my own destruction, to mercilessly witness the slow annihilation of everything I held dear? 

Now my head was started to spin, and I felt myself hovering close to the edge of my familiar black hole, and I was seized by the terrible realization that, maybe, this black hole was my innermost wish and I should just, once and for all, jump into it like the truly wretched jumped fearlessly into the Room. Yes, jump into the black hole and be done with it. And then what? I felt my whole body shiver and, instinctively, my hand clutched at Louis’ knee, clinging to him like a drowning man to a float. The pressure of his hand increased on my head, caressing, smoothing, reassuring, and my body coiled itself like a foetus, snuggling close to my Beloved’s steady, comforting frame. His fingers raked deep through my hair and came to rest on my skull, weighing on it as if to anchor me back to reality, and his other hand took a firm hold of my shoulder. Sighing, I leaned into his embrace and became still again. He did not move either. He must have thought me prey to a nightmare. Or maybe he saw right through my little game but pretended to go along to save me embarrassment. Such an old game between us.

I wondered if, for all his philosophy, he was any more aware of his innermost wish than I was? What if, for all his talk of penance, redemption and deep understanding of the world, his innermost wish was presently snuggling on his lap, pretending to sleep in blissful ignorance while pathetically fending off yet another occurrence of his chronic panic attacks? What if my Louis, purposely striding into the Room with all the bravery of the truly wretched, was greeted, not by the face of God Almighty, but by the wicked grin of his own personal blond demon? Would he, finally, truly hate me then? Hate me for shattering to pieces his grand illusions about himself? He had long ago accepted responsibility for his own damnation, but could he live with the awareness that he wanted this damnation? Not the mere consequence of the hasty decision of a desperate mortal so long ago, his brains addled by liquor, not a sorry little sin from so long ago he now had to spend eternity atoning for, but his innermost wish, renewed deep in his heart every single night of his preternatural existence, renewed with the manic faith of the newly-wed every time he plunged his green eyes into mine?

I pondered all this staring blindly at the screen, scared to look up for what I would read in his eyes, or else not read there, scared as ever to open my heart and my thoughts to him, and even as the rumble of a train started to shake the whole world like some man-made harbinger of apocalypse, and glasses crashed to the floor under the stoic gaze of the little demon-girl, I pretended to sleep. I pretended to sleep right until Louis gently shook me and said in his soft, patient voice “The film’s over, Lestat”. Then I stretched languidly on his lap, using the opportunity to let him feel the play of my muscles against his body, making a big show of yawning loudly, and inquired offhandedly about the fate of the Writer character “Did he get minced or did he win the Pulitzer?”

“That would be the People’s Writer Award, my Love” he provided helpfully. My Louis, such an endless fountain of perfectly useless knowledge, right down to the names of literary prizes from Evil Empires on their last legs. I looked up then, seeking the look of weary exasperation on his beloved face that is one of my little addictions and pleasures in life, but all I saw there was love. Love and complete, peaceful acceptance. And right then I knew. I knew for sure that, should he step into the Room, he would be greeted by my mischievous face, and God Almighty and all His empty promises of redemption could go to Hell for all he cared. And above all, I knew that he knew. I knew that he knew and accepted. And just then I felt overwhelmed by such a powerful surge of warmth that I stood up on his lap and took hold of his perfect face in both my hands, ever so gently, as though he was the most precious jewel, the most delicate treasure to be handled with the utmost reverent care, my thumbs caressing his jaw line with the delicate touch of a feather, and I leaned to kiss his lips, not one of my passionate, lusty kisses, no, but a chaste yet fiercely ardent kiss, the reverent, loving kiss of Mary Magdalene kissing the feet of her Christ. As I broke away he looked at me strangely, almost suspiciously, so unused to tenderness from me that such a gesture could only mean I was on the verge of some dreadful confession, such as having munched on a disabled African-American nun on the waiting list for canonization.

He stared at me, silent and thoughtful, for a while as I stared back, still and almost sheepish, waiting for his next move with the nagging anxiety that only he can stir in me. Finally he spoke, shifting imperceptibly under my weight: “I should be on my way, dawn is approaching.” However he made no real move to get up or shove me off his lap. I knew exactly what was coming, always the same old game. The same tiresome old game, tonight and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, every damn single night for all eternity. 

“Yes, my Love, I can feel it too, the big bad dawn ...” I purred in his ear, leaning closer so that my loins were rubbing onto his.

“And those mortals, with all their planes and their chemicals, they're screwing the weather up ...” I continued, playing on his reluctance towards modern inventions “I bet with all their satellites and radio-wave they're screwing the whole rotation of the Earth as well !” I caressed his hair tenderly and stared down, straight in his eyes, with a deep, thoughtful gaze, conveying the whole extent of my distress about such tragic ecological disasters … “Who knows exactly when the dawn is coming nowadays ?” I asked with an anguished sigh that, I must modestly say, would have earned me much clapping back then at Renaud's ... “All these mortal experts, pretending to know everything ! They predicted a storm tonight, and look how hot it is !” I whined, using the stuffy heat as an excuse to undo a few buttons of my shirt. I waved a hand to fan myself like a Prima Donna, sighing and bending my head backward to expose my throat… I heard Louis gulp, and through my lashes, I could see him forcing himself to lay his hands flat on the couch at his sides … “I bet they pick the dawn times with dices rather than admit they have no clue !”

“Predicting dawn times has nothing to do with predicting the weather !” Louis protested, bracing all of his wavering self control “And none of the mortals' artificial magnetic fields can affect the rotation of the Earth, they're much too weak” he informed me sternly. However, he looked a bit flushed and not so sure anymore … The whole thing was ridiculous, really. I could not understand why, after all these years, he still had to play hard to get and force me into the whole charade of acting the ruthless corrupter of the innocent. It could not be his stupid Catholic guilt, not after all we'd done together, again and again and again … The unpleasant thought fleeted by that, possibly, he was a better actor than me and simply enjoyed playing me, watching me make a fool of myself with my corny pick up lines and tired Boulevard tricks … But I shrugged it off ! Goddamnit, nobody was a a better actor than the Great Lelio de Lioncourt ! So on I went, for the show must go on …

“Perhaps, my clever little bookworm, perhaps … You're the one who knows better about these things ...” I crooned sheepishly in his ear, shamelessly appealing to his well-concealed but nonetheless considerable ego. For let me tell you a secret: Louis loves to be Right. And he loves even more me admitting that he is Right !... 

I sucked sensually on his earlobe and continued purring … “But think about this, Precious Darling, walking all the way back through town in the little hours, with only the drunks and junkies … What if a bunch of them attacked you, my Beautiful One ? What if they could not resist your charms ?” I was not leaning fully against his chest, whispering so close to his ear that he could feel my lips moving against his skin.

“What if they attacked you and you had to drain them all in self-defense ? All this blood ...” I bent quickly to lick along his jugular “All this blood, full of alcohol and drugs, sending you into a swoon, alone in the street mere hours before dawn … my poor fledgling all alone … my poor heart worrying for you …” I was now barely coherent, half purring, half moaning, stopping between words to lick his ear, cheek and neck randomly, my hands massaging his thighs and abdomen, tentatively closer and closer to the object of my (and his) desire ...

“All this blood … A very, very deep swoon … ” That was below the belt, literally, conjuring images of blood and swoon to get him going, but all is fair in war and love ...

When I felt his whole slender frame tremble, and his hands gripping the front of my belt to pull me down forcefully closer to him, I knew I had won. At least for tonight.

“All right” he surrendered, his voice a mere hoarse whisper tickling my ear. “But just for one day.”

“Of course, my Darling, just for one day ...” I crooned submissively, hiding a victorious grin behind my hair as he shoved me roughly off him to get up, and started to pull on my belt to lead me authoritatively towards the bedroom. 

I planted my feet firmly on the floor and stalled with all my might. My turn to play hard to get!

He stumbled backward as I refused to move but steadied himself with his usual grace and turned to look at me with bewildered eyes.

“Where do you think you're going ?” I asked sternly. For an instant, I glimpsed a distressing look of pure pain and loss in his stunning eyes, and he looked so much like an abandoned child that I almost felt a pang of guilt rip through my wicked heart. Why do I always have to play such cruel games, even when my restrained little fledgling behaves accordingly to my wildest fantasies, shedding all of his silly conformist pride to have his dirty way with me ? The answer, my dears: because cruel games are the most fun.

The distressed look vanished, replaced by his usual impassiveness. Such astonishing control, my Darling, such steely nerves ! However, I knew him well enough to read his tense posture, his defensiveness. Preparing to fight or flight. I felt his grip slacken on my belt and covered his hand with mine, not wanting him to release me, not wanting his pride to wash away his want for me. This was, after all, nothing but a silly game.

“Louis, Louis ...” I crooned playfully, caressing his hand fondly “Look at you, my filthy little child ...” I felt him relax, understanding that this was just one of my stupid power games, no rejection. Yet, his eyes were now gleaming rebelliously. He knew just where I was going and he didn't like it … 

“Long gone are the days where we bathed weekly and hid our filth under powder and perfume ...” I continued in the stern but loving tone of a father scolding his favorite yet irritating child for the umpteenth time. “This is the twentieth century, Louis ! Launderettes for 2 dollars at every street corners ! Freshly pressed linen weekly ! Hot and cold running water on all floors ! Domestic boilers ! Hot tubs ! Power showers ! Petrochemical Bubble Bath ! Chemically scented soaps !” After a quick caress, I released his hand to get a good grip at the back of his jeans, pressing him to me, and, for good measure, firmly grabbed a handful of his hair with my other hand. He squirmed and hissed like an angry wet cat but there was just no way he could escape when I used brute force against him. Not that I was very proud of doing so but, Hell, I am a damnable fiend, he had been warned about it and so are you ! 

I blew his hair away, grinning victoriously as a cloud of dust flew off, obligingly proving my point, and whispered in my best “sadistic control-freak maker” voice: “Long gone are the days where I welcomed filthy whores into my bed, my Darling ...” After all, the little wretch had dictated a whole book describing me as a sadistic control freak, it was only fair he was given this treatment once in a while. He brought it upon himself !

Hypnotically slowly, he moved closer, so close I could feel his unmistakable hardness against my thigh, and whispered back in my ear, his sweet voice laced with fuming poison and razor-sharp knives: “I don't recall any of your filthy whores ever making it to your bed, Lestat … As I remember, you always kept such encounters to the parlor ...” Ah, this voice! How it had tortured me back in the old days, slamming me back down on the slimy floor like an unworthy peasant as I desperately reached out to him for closeness, connection, love … How it still tortured me now, every time he slipped away from my hold after our brief encounters ! Yet, how eagerly I would bathe in it, with what abandon I would drown in it, the poison the sweetest treat, the knives the most sensual caresses !

“That's my philanthropic nature, my Sweetest ...” I replied, a mere whisper millimeters from his soft lips “always the good Christian, sharing my food ...”

He hissed harshly against my lips, irritated as ever by my fit of blasphemy. He had always been fastidious in his loss of faith, his berating of God Almighty always limited to the melodramatic, never one to see the comic potential of agnostic anxiety. That's why a pretty face is not enough to make one a good actor, I mused. The capacity to recognize that comedy and tragedy are but two facets of the same schizophrenic creature, its grotesque two-faced head forever spinning round and round in the giddy carousel that is Life, that is what makes an actor worth his salt, I thought gravely. However the intoxicating taste of his angry breath against my lips soon melted away all rational thought from my brain and I pulled him roughly for a hungry demanding kiss. He responded fiercely, biting my tongue in his eagerness, though luckily not with his fang teeth, and I felt his body melt against mine. Taking advantage of his momentary lack of resistance, I grabbed him firmly and, that time, it was my turn to drag him across the flat to the bathroom.

Not taking the risk to release him, I locked the door behind us with my mind and the key flew neatly into my jeans pocket. “Now my Sweet, time for your bath! You know it's for your own good and you'll thank me for it ...” 

“Hands off me, you abusive bastard !” he snarled, shaking himself off my my hold. Yet he made no move to kick or slam the door. Instead he started striping with deliberate slowness, this preternatural slowness both maddening and hypnotizing, his eyes never leaving mine, glaring fierce green fire, challenging me to come closer if I dared. I turned the tap on with my mind, unable to move but to lick my lips nervously as I watched him strip before me. Not a sensual, teasing show, I might as well not have been there but for his wrathful gaze piercing my flesh, just the deliberate, disdainful gesture of the brave, wretched soul who finds solace in nothing but himself, who could find himself naked in front of the whole damn world yet still remain an impenetrable mystery.

He shed his clothes carelessly on the floor, in a holier-than-thou display of scorn for worldly possessions, impatiently brushed his hair back from his face and got in the steaming water without a word. Watching his lithe, supple form that had always, from the very beginning, driven me to the edge of maniacal want, I started stripping myself, giving him the privilege of the full-on De Lioncourt Show, a show that, in all due modesty, had once reduced a Concert Hall-full of groupies to fainting fits, sobbing hysteria and seat-wetting. Yet he made a point of ignoring me, absorbing himself in the list of ingredients on one of my many bottles of shampoo. Piqued as I was by his petulant lack of appreciation, I still wondered idly whether he could make any sense of the Latin jargon.

Naked, I sat on the edge of the bath, wincing at the cold contact of the porcelain and pried the bottle away from his hands, putting it back in its place. He kept staring stubbornly at the water, and I gently caressed his jaw, forcing his chin upwards to look at me. He did not seem angry anymore, maybe vaguely thoughtful, and the wet ends of his hair hung ratty on his shoulders, giving him the heartbreakingly frail look of a war-orphan. I closed my eyes for an instant then, wanting to fix his image forever in my mind, my fragile, precious child, trusting me, letting me take care of him, should Cruel Fate some night decide to snatch him away from my damned hands. My beloved child, my one true love, for whom I would do anything.

I knelt on the floor, resting an arm on the edge of the bath, and started to slowly pick up water in one hand, letting it drip down his neck and shoulders, as he sat there, still and compliant. I moved to his hair, knowing he would allow me to wash and brush it for him. He knew I loved doing it and had always let me, even in our direst moments where fights seemed to give birth to more fights, with nothing but brief interludes of violent snarling passion lighting the dark, seemingly endless tunnel. Or maybe he was just thankful to be relieved of the chore of doing it himself. 

I started untangling knots with the gentlest touch of my fingers, as he sat still, contented, immersed in the play of electric lights on the water. Something moved in his soft hair and I leaned closer to investigate. A tiny spider ! I laughed aloud, delighted. “Louis, Louis ! You're such a cliché of yourself ! What I am supposed to do with you ?” I carefully picked up the creature in my hand. It squirmed and struggled, jiggling its long legs, apparently unwilling to leave such a comfortable nest as my Beloved's mane. Well, I could empathize with it on this point, but I had caught him first and I was certainly not sharing. Ginning like an idiot, I opened my palm to show the spider to Louis but he seemed positively uninterested. The spider started to explore the surface of my hand and I watched, fascinated, as the lamp projected its shadow at a weird angle on my white skin. A frightful, mutant creature treading the desert's sand dunes. I closed my fist, lest the creature escaped, placed a soft kiss on Louis' forehead and picked up a random bit of clothing from the floor (which turned out to be his shirt) to tie around my waist. Now, I cannot understand why anyone in their right mind would complain of such a gorgeous sight as The Vampire Lestat in Adam's attributes, but I had had complaints about my enjoying my roof garden au naturel. Probably some sinister fellow whose wife had received a divine revelation of his shortcomings after being blessed with the apparition of Your Humble Servant. Whatever ! Their loss, not mine, to hell with free neighborly entertainment. 

“Don't go anywhere!” I ordered sternly, mentally locking the door behind me for good measure. I felt a pang of guilt: what if I was struck by lightning on my roof garden, a fire started and my poor fledgling was locked all alone in the bathroom ?! Damn him, if a fire started, chances were he'd be the cause of it and if I was struck by lighting, I fully expected him to join his maker in the Great Beyond, the unfaithful ungrateful wretch ! I walked across the flat to the door to the roof garden and ascended the spiral staircase. The night was warm and smelt heavily of honeysuckle. Tendrils from the various kinds of vines that thrived like weed in this climate caught in my hair and caressed my naked flesh. My evasive little fledgling took pity on his pathetic lonely maker and brought him a pet, I thought acidly as I released the spider outside. Thinking of it, maybe I needed a pet ? What kind of pet would suit such a well-adjusted fellow as myself ? Cats look down on you, dogs look up to you, I remembered reading once somewhere. What kind of creature would consider itself a well-matched equal to a bloodthirsty demon like me ? A hyena, I thought mirthfully ! Such long lovely hours we could spend together, my pet hyena and I, grinning at each other, snickering at each other, comparing the size of our teeth ! I shook my head at my own nonsense and made my way back inside. 

Noticing a dead flower on a rose bush, I absentmindedly snapped it off with one of my razor sharp fingernails and put it in his shirt pocket. An offering of dead roses to my living dead love. His shirt. Around my waist. Goddamnit! I remembered, then, my jeans in the bathroom with the key in them! Uttering a string of bilingual swearwords, I rushed back downstairs, fully expecting to find my rebellious child escaped. Suddenly, the prospect of burying alive mutinous fledglings until they learned the value of obedience and discipline seemed positively appealing and I regretted wrecking havoc in Armand's cosy little coven all those years ago. The sight of the bathroom door open confirmed my worst fears and I cursed myself for being such a damned idiot. I entered, already dispirited, to find my child quietly dozing in the warm water, his hair wet and ready to be washed. The key was back in its keyhole and not a word was spoken about it.

From the back of the shelf, behind an impressive collection of elaborate blonde-enhancing shampoos, I retrieved the bottle that I kept there for his own use. “Ravenous Beauty”, as though they could not have come up with anything sillier. I suppose it was a testament to Louis' and I literary efforts that even the local scruffy hippie coop had been forced into the market of natural cosmetics catering for goths. I supposed I should have felt flattered, in an odd sort of way. Still, as it was, I just felt vaguely peeved, for no good reason. I knelt by him on the floor and he obediently bent his head to let me wash his hair. I did so, careful to avoid his eyes, gently massaging his scalp to ease the tension steaming from this pretty head that thought too much for its own good. “Dive !” I ordered when I was done, and he did just so like the well-bred child he was, shaking his hair like so much enchanted seaweed to rinse it. He stayed underwater much longer than necessary, blowing a string of petulant bubbles up at me, then making a bit point of not breathing. When he finally emerged, he had a gleeful smile. “You know, that would have been impressive if you actually had to breathe !” I chided in a mock severe tone, but I don't think my acting talent was up to its usual standard for his silly joy was too infectious. It was not often I got to see him so innocent, so childlike. Was this True Love, I mused, as he tried to spit some water at me but missed, was this True Love, this ability, for fleeting, blissful instants, to make each other revert to the state of harebrained toddlers ? I aimed to join him in the water, with in mind, I must confess, slightly more mature activities, but he slithered out gracefully before I could grip him. “I'm clean to 20th century standards!” he declared mischievously, “If I share my bath with a filthy whore now, I'd have to be kicked out of bed again, and I don't care for that. Do you ?” And after giving me a wet, heated kiss, he grabbed a towel and ran out, dripping water all over the place with no mercy for my period waxed oak floors …

I cursed him colorfully and had the quickest shower of my whole damned existence, quicker even than when, during the bitter winters of my mortal years, I had had to wash in cold water, standing in the snowed in courtyard of the castle after coming back from hunting.

When I joined him he was sprawled on my bed, absorbed, how surprising, in a book. My book, Les Chants de Maldoror if you really need to know. Damn, I had been so sure under the bed was such a clever hiding place. Sometimes, it sucks to be blond. He glared up at me, much to my puzzlement. I would have expected him to approve of such a reading choice: it was, after all, avant-garde poetry and an inside reflection on the mind of an evil creature. I felt mild relief that he had not found the latest James Ellroy further underneath the bed, full of gory murders, sexy private dicks and psychopathic icy Blondes who reminded me of Mother. How wrathful would he have looked ?! Then I realized he was staring at my bookmark.

It was a candid Polaroid of himself, frozen mid-stride in front of my window as a panther stalking its prey, his hand gracefully reaching for the curtain. The streetlights projected the intricate patterns of the iron lace balcony all over his naked body.

“If I had the real thing more often, I would not need such substitutes” I said haughtily, snatching the photograph from his clutches. I put it away in a secretaire whose key had been lost ages ago and locked it with my mind, out of his reach unless he burnt the whole damn flat down.

“I'm out of focus !” he complained suddenly, taking me totally by surprise. “You write pages and pages of dubious prose waxing lyrical about how entrancingly beautiful you find me, and you can't even take a half-decent picture of me to pleasure yourself on !” “Or whatever it is that you do with it ...” he added, full of dark suspicion. He sounded so rightfully outraged that I couldn't help but burst out laughing. My lofty, remote philosopher, my dusty tramp of a child had vanity, after all ! How did I ever dare call him boring and predictable ?! That was priceless ! That made my night !

Still sniggering, I threw myself on the bed by his side and rolled on my back, pulling him on top of me. I smacked his backside playfully then grasped it firmly to hold him still, reaching up with my other hand to stroke his still wet hair. He looked down at me with an offended pout. 

“That's Flou Artistique, Chaton ! Modern Art did not stop at Monet, I'm sorry to say ...” I objected in my best imitation of his most pedantic tone. “Plus I'm pretty sure I got your most remarkable attributes sharp in focus ...” I teased, lovingly caressing his behind, tentatively edging closer and closer to the crevice where I so longed to be … I felt him part his legs imperceptibly under my touch and shuddered in anticipation.

“But you know I would do anything to please you, so, if it offends your classical sensibilities ...” I continued, showing fangs teasingly in my wickedest most brattish grin that spelled troubles for miles around “I would be happy to arrange a session with a proper professional! I'm sure Marius would be delighted to have you as his Muse... I think I remember picking such hints from his brain, the dirty old demon ...”

I half expected him to smack me, already anticipating the heavenly lash of his hand, but instead he lowered himself on me, crossing his arms on my chest and resting his chin on them, gazing at me with thoughtful eyes. “Why do I think I would not be the one most upset by such an artistic experiment ?” he mused in his most delightful tone of fake innocence, the one he perfectly knew had always reduced me to a shapeless pathetic rag of moaning lust.

“You're sure you do not want to know what I do with this picture, Precious ?” I baited, oddly frustrated by his peaceful acceptance. Where the hell was my little Prude ?

“I'm pretty sure I can live much better without this knowledge ...” he answered demurely.

“You're not concerned that I might, hum, show it around ? You know how vain I am … How could I resist boasting about such a fine possession ?” I teased, fondling his firm cheeks with more insistence. I felt him harden against me but he otherwise remained a picture of relaxed impassibility.

Raising a thoughtful finger to his lips, he answered in cool confidence: “I know you do not.”

“How can you be so sure, my Lovely ? I thought you were the world expert regarding what a damnable … perverse … abusive … dirty … fiend I am ?” I had grabbed hold of him with both hands now, punctuating each word with a squeeze hard enough to make him rub himself against me. I could feel his composure weaken, his breathing go ragged, yet there was no guarantee he would not hold his dignity longer than me …

He knotted his arms around my neck, and pulled violently on my hair to bring my ear to his lips. “I know you don't show it around because I found it in your book, your shameful little secret, you illiterate peasant !” he whispered, oozing sweet poison. “I know … my modesty … is safe … from prying eyes … only ravaged … by your very own assaults … my Demon ...” He delivered those last words in mere breathy moans against my ear, stopping to lick with increasing insistence at the vein underneath. 

And that did the job, he had won, and I was once again his slave, his willing, devoted slave, and with a snarl I grabbed him to flip us over, pinning him violently underneath me and he responded with equal fierceness, all but pulling my hair to bring my mouth down for a searing kiss. It hit us like a storm and it was time for silly games no more. Enough of cruel power games, childish teasing and poking, and immature pride. It was one of those moments where both of us were drown by the frightening realization that eternity was but a hazy concept of the mortal mind, that, at any second, our eternity could be reduced to nothingness, by the Almighty Sun, by fire, by a raving murderous Queen … By insanity or by the mere crushing   
weight of our own boredom and despair... 

Sucking fiercely on my tongue, he flung his legs around my waist and pulled me down violently onto him, rubbing himself against me in a way so nearly obscene that it all but maddened me, moaning against my lips as though daring me to go on, do it, take what I wanted. But I would not. Too easy. Just what he wanted, to be taken, possessed, ravaged, blissfully relieved of the responsibility of it all. I wanted him with me. Always had. Wanted him, for once, to face the fact that he wanted this as much as I did, and had wanted it for all those years that he spent lying to himself, cursing me for he couldn't quite curse himself. Wanted him to admit, Damn him, that he was in it as much as I was, cursed with one another, bound to another. In Lust. In Hell. In Love.

So I broke the kiss and stared down at him in defiance, his eyes hooded, hazy. He snarled as I moved away from him, and I clasped his wrists in my hands to keep him still. Slowly I moved down on him, leaving a trail of kisses, licks and nips all the way down his chest, nibbling softly so as to draw but a mere drop of blood, lapping at it deliriously like the most precious nectar. My own burning thirst maddened me, such fiery torture, how I longed to sink my fangs in him, drain him all, possess him at last, my child, my love, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, Mine ! Mine ! Mine ! Drain him to the very last drop, till he lays white and still and helpless in my arms, utterly mine, till his stubborn heart reaches that dangerous, hypnotic rhythm where he tethers on the very edge of existence and I hold the power. Then, as his flame shudders at the brink of obliteration, give it all back to him, like that very first time, give it all back to him, give all of myself to him, my blood, my life, my love. And at that very moment when I could blissfully disappear forever, drown in him, pay at least for my sins and what I have done to him, at that very moment reach for him in frenzy and hold onto him and this damned existence, take it all back and complete the circle until I am him and he is me, and we are locked together for eternity in our own sweet purgatory.

But I could do none of this for he still would not take my blood. I had to rein in my thirst, and spare him like water in a besieged city, take but mere drops of his Holy essence to make it last until tomorrow. Maddening, maddening to have the object of your deepest desire lying still, helpless and willing in your arms, yet to know that to give in would be the death of him. So I feasted on my meager drops, savoring each of them like they were the blood of Christ Almighty Himself.

He had quietened, the shedding of blood sending him into a mild swoon, my attentions reassuring him that I was not abandoning him, merely delaying his release. He kept his legs locked tight around me as I moved down, till they secured themselves around my neck as I reached my goal. I kissed the tip of him softly and gently, tentatively licked his length till I felt him relax and I knew I could release his wrists. Gently but firmly, my left hand took a good hold of his thigh to keep him still. I continued to tease him, licking him, playfully suckling at him without ever taking him fully in, nibbling at him without drawing blood. He knotted his fingers in my hair, trying to force me closer but his strength was but a childlike attempt to me. I licked my fingers and started to nudge tentatively at his opening, teasing his tight ring with the gentlest of touch. But I felt him tense, instinctively resisting me like he so often did after so much time apart, some deeply buried inhibition taking over despite his earnest show of passion. I was used to this, some dark remnants of catholic guilt, the fairytale monster of Sin forever lurking in the undercurrent of his psyche like a sinister bogeyman. 

I looked up at him from under my lashes, catching his gaze for an instant, as my mouth abandoned his organ to move to his opening. I took a firm hold of his length in my hand, both to keep still and to show that I was not neglecting him, and started to lick lovingly at his entrance, kissing it playfully before torturing him with the tip of my tongue. He squirmed in embarrassment but soon the wet warmth of my tongue was too much for him and he was arching to me, mewling softly in his throat. I tentatively inserted a finger, this time feeling him open to me, his inner muscle gripping my finger in a way that almost sent me over the edge right there, so much was my want of him. My longing to be in him, to possess him, my child, to feel this muscle grip me in a way that screamed, as he had done in his darkest moods so long ago, never abandon me, never, never let me go. Taking him fully back in my mouth, I started sucking lazily at him, while gently inserting my finger further, tentatively seeking this special spot that gave him so much pleasure. I knew I had found it when he gasped and the tension in his thighs threatened to strangle me. I gave a sharp nip on his cock, drawing blood, and causing him to buck further into me. I sucked harder, made ravenous by the intoxicating taste of his blood, caressing him intimately, inserting a second finger after a while. His hand were now clenching forcefully at my hair and he was fully lost in his own rhythm, fucking my mouth and fucking himself on my fingers. He was ever so quiet though, my Darling, ever the well-bred gentleman, never one to moan or cry out loudly, no, for such depraved perversions had to be kept secret behind closed doors. Behind mosquito nets, underneath silk covers, like that very first time I had known him biblically. But he did give out the most delightful little mewling sounds, strangled throaty cries pitched just for my ears. And he trembled. I let him have his own way a bit, until I felt his slender frame shake helplessly, then I slowed down, licking him languorously and caressing less sensitive places, driving him mad until he rebelled and squirmed against me, aggressively demanding release. We played this game for a bit, riding the rolling waves of his lust, until the rhythm of his tremors got so random that I could not, for all my considerable skills, predict his reactions anymore. Then I bit his cock viciously and he came hard with a desperate little cry, the sticky tart taste of his bloody semen slightly different from his normal blood with which it mingled, his inner muscle spasming around my finger in the ripples of his orgasm. 

I swallowed it all, the Holy essence of my Louis, and released him with a little laugh, kissing his now limp organ playfully. It always gave me such a heady rush of power to see him squirm and gasp like this, my Beloved, abandoned, and wild, and madly beautiful, and to know that I was the cause of it. I licked him clean like a great cat, licking my own fingers too to take inside me every single little bit of him. Then I moved up on top of him, pinning both his wrists above his head and kissing him hard, forcing him to taste himself. He squirmed to escape me, for he found this habit detestable, that was the very reason I was always doing it, but soon, like it always did, the taste of his own blood was too much to bear and he was kissing me back with utter abandon, sucking on my tongue possessively. 

His heart was racing madly but his eyes were heavily lidded and his posture languid, the very picture of sated contentment. Which reminded me of my own state of painful arousal. He had abandoned me in enforced chastity for three weeks, the wretch, with nothing to sustain myself but the awkward gropings of swooning mortals in dark alleyways, and I was starting to feel the drain of it. And yet, here he was, lying on his back in utter contentment, having managed, as ever, to get his way first. Well, I was now determined for this sorry situation not to last any longer!

Still pinning his wrists, I started to rub myself against him, singing salaciously in his ear “Je vais, je vais et je viens, entre tes reins ...” He laughed softly, knotting his legs around my waist and, lazily peering at me from under his lashes, purred in my ear “I'm afraid you're not going anywhere, Darling...” And I swear I could hear mirthful satisfaction in his oh so sweet voice! I looked down at him, quite peeved, raising an eyebrow. “Dawn is coming for me...” he explained with an apologetic smile, but the mischievous gleam in his eyes contradicted it all.

“I see! Always such perfect timing, beloved...” I commented acidly. “You're the one who insisted I needed a bath.” he replied with a hint of dangerous teasing. But before I could get angry, he added earnestly “I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow night. With interest.” and he reached up to give me the sweetest of kisses, barely licking my lips with his soft tongue. It melted me, of course, like he perfectly knew it would and I moved off him, keeping my burning lust in check.

He curled himself on his side with his back to me and I pressed myself close against him, slipping my left arm under his sleepy head and flinging my right arm around his waist, drawing him close to me. He took hold of my hands in his, and shifted slightly against me, making himself comfortable. I pressed my erection against his firm backside, murmuring threateningly in his ear “Remember what's awaiting you when you wake up!” He sighed then, ostensibly a God-have-mercy-on-my-sex-obsessed-harebrained-maker type of sigh, but I swear it sounded suspiciously like a sigh of blissful contentment. And so it should! For I daresay many, mortals and immortals alike, would have given an arm and leg to have The Infamous Vampire Lestat attend to their most intimate satisfaction, all the while keeping him in a state of painful sexual frustration! He suckled on my thumb for while, sweet and childlike, then his body went limp and he stopped breathing as the Deathsleep took hold of him. 

I held him lovingly for a while, sniffing the musky smell of his hair caressing my face, drenched in blood sweat as a testament to my skills. I savored the feel of him, my stubborn, contrary child, now limp, passive and utterly helpless in my arms. However, smitten with him as I may be and always had been, I started to feel fidgety after a bit. This tentative passivity was failing to hold my full attention. I missed his wit, his poisonous tongue, the rebellious curve of his eyebrows to keep me entertained. I missed the soothing sound of his breathing to lull me into sleep. I still had a good full hour before the death sleep claimed me and, in other circumstances, would have blissfully fallen in a restful mortal sleep but, at present, three weeks worth of unreleased longing were keeping me quite energized, I daresay.

I placed a soft kiss on his shoulder and gently extricated myself from his hold to check the flat. I had to do this anyway, I reasoned with myself. For the safety of my fragile child. I usually did it for myself anyway, but sometimes neglected to. With consequences. A couple of weeks ago, after feeding from a couple of junkies, I had passed out on my bed and spend the day in agony, prey to horrific hallucinations. I had no idea what the drug was, some wickedly modified form of acid I should guess, even though I would have expected that kind of drug to be out of circulation long before my awakening 5 years ago. Whatever. What mattered was that, when I awakened the next evening, drenched in blood sweat and suffering the worst migraine of my two centuries of undeath, I realized I had fallen asleep with the window still slightly open to let the warm breeze in. It had also let the warm rays of sun in during my slumber … Testimony to this was a most unsightly third degree burn on my forearm. Agonizingly aching charred flesh. Yet I was quite alive. The frantic beats of my panicked heart were proof of that, and I pinched myself several times for good measure to make sure. I wore long sleeved shirts for a week, fed more heavily than usual, scanning mortal minds for organically-fed health freaks in order to accelerate the healing process. Within a week the burn was fully healed. Disappeared. Invisible. I told no one about this, no one needed to know, not even my Louis. For once, I was grateful for his elusive nature, for it would have been difficult to invent excuses to remain fully clothed should he have decided to visit me then. But my fragile, nearly human child would certainly not survive such reckless endangerment. 

So I walked to the bedroom window, obsessively checking that each and every one of the outside shutters were pulled down, locked and secured by the electronic alarm. I pulled all the heavy velvet drapes, arranging the folds like a manic housewife on amphetamines. I walked out of the bedroom, repeated this procedure in every room of the flat, checked that the front door was locked, shaking the handle a good five times as though I was suddenly affected by obsessive-compulsive disorder. I checked the central alarm system, performing the required weekly test while I was at it. This all took me all of a good five minutes. This was but a rather small city center penthouse flat, designed for a wealthy bachelor. I did not need one of those huge town houses anymore, not with a fugitive lover stubbornly refusing to move in with me. Contrary wretch. All I could do now was go back to bed to him and wait for the death sleep. 

I did just so, pressing myself against his back, sliding my arm underneath his to hold his waist tightly. He did not move, deep in the death sleep, and just then did it hit me that the vampiric instinct to strike first at any intruder on our helpless slumber never took place against me. Because I was his maker ? Because I was his lover ? Did the demonic core in him somehow recognized the kinship in my blood, recognized me as his maker, his master ? Was he forever helpless before me, whatever might happen to us, simply because I made him all those years ago ? Or was it in quality of lover that my closeness was tolerated ? Did the fierce, primal instinct in him somehow recognized my scent, my feel, my heartbeat and associated it with concepts of pleasure, warmth, safety, commanding him not to strike at me ? I felt a sick morbid fascination for the whole issue and wondered whether David and all his stuffy Talamascans had any clue about it. Had they ever watched any of us in our death sleep like mere laboratory rats ? What would they give to watch me and my Louis as we lay helpless in each other's arms, my frozen hands straying to whichever intimate place they had been exploring when the mighty Dawn hit me ? I felt both deeply repulsed and sickly aroused at the whole idea.

I pressed myself closer, tightening my hold on his waist, throwing a leg over his hip, and reached tentatively to fondle him intimately. No reaction, and by then I was half-crazed with lust, picturing hordes of academics in tweeds and glasses stoically taking notes as I rubbed myself obscenely against my sleeping child. In a big glass cage, under neon light. I swear I only planned to jerk off against him, pleasuring myself against his smooth skin, what was the harm in this, when I was already holding him so close ? Just touch myself in the warm crevice between his firm cheeks, no further, no, I swore, rubbing myself frantically against him, still fondling him, licking the sheen of blood sweat from his back, but as I was moving erratically up and down his cleft, already leaking little drops of bloody semen, making him slick with it, my tip accidentally hit his tight little opening and I felt it give and I remembered then, with a mindless moan, that he was ready. That I had made him ready, pleasuring him endlessly, and I remembered his ecstatic face, his parted lips, his little moans of pleasure as I had done so and before I could think the better of it, it was too late, I was in him. And as he unknowingly welcomed me, engulfed me, all rational thought flew from my brain for how could something be bad that felt so good, so perfect, so divine ? Yes, I was in Heaven ! In my child, my beloved, beautiful child, that I had crafted so long ago from my own flesh and blood to be my companion, my lover, to be mine ! And just now, he was mine, yes, so perfectly, utterly mine, my warm, tight, welcoming child, mine and mine and mine only.

And on this last blissful thought I released in him with a heart wrenching cry and thought, oh my God, what have I done ? 

Full of shame and, I must confessed, also much more relaxed, I withdrew from him. He need never know about it, I thought. Yes, I am an abusive, disgusting, sadistic fiend, no, I do not deserve him, yes, he should very well abandon me right now and let me stew in my own Evil all alone till Judgment Day, yes, I deserved no kinder fate, yes, yes, yes to all this! But, no, really, he need never know about it. Tomorrow, I would make penance and be the most perfect lover he could ever wish for, and he'd be none the wiser for it. And on these words I proceeded to lick him clean where I was dripping from him. Now, however narcissistic I may have the reputation to be, I do not make an habit of consuming my own emissions. But this was different, I could not think of anything better to do to hide my crime, and they had been inside my Louis, in his Holiest secret sanctuary, my unworthy emissions somehow sanctified by it, the only kind of Holy Transfiguration that could still reach us in our Hell. I noticed then, that my hand was wet. He had erupted onto it, but that did not make me feel better about my transgression, no. I licked him clean, and my hand too, vaguely wondering whether he would remember a wet dream. Nocturnal Emissions or rather, for creatures like us, Diurnal. 

I spooned back against him, embracing him, and was all too grateful when the death sleep freed me from my shameful anxiety.

When I awoke the next night, Louis had already drifted into a peaceful mortal sleep, which indicated it was at least an hour later than my usual time. Was this the result of a guilty conscience trying to drown itself in dreams in order to avoid the confrontation with its own Unforgivable Sin? Not that my dreams had provided much of an escape, filled as they were with grinning demons brandishing pitchforks, lace curtains ablaze with roaring flames billowing madly in the wind and dark, slimy swamps full of sharp-teethed alligators … I felt a pang of guilt when I saw that my sweet, innocent, abused child had shifted in his mortal sleep and was now nuzzling my chest, his arms tight around my waist, his soft breath caressing my skin through his parted lips. He was so beautiful. So perfect. I did not deserve him. He did not deserve a despicable fiend like me. He ought to find himself someone decent. Armand. Or Marius. Anyone would treat him better than I did. And anyone would jump at the chance to have him. And just then I felt him stir against me, his sooty eyelashes fluttering gracefully, his arms tightening around my waist as he stretched languidly, and he opened his stunning eyes, and looked up at me, and smiled the sweetest smile at me, and said “Good evening my Love” before reaching up for a kiss.

His left arm tightened around my waist and his right hand moved to cup my neck as he pulled my lips to his. His soft tongue traced the line of of upper lip, then my lower lip before forcing itself in and gently, seductively, teasing mine. Deepening the kiss, sucking lasciviously, he knotted his legs around my waist, his hand now running feverishly up and down my spine, reverently tracing the muscles of my shoulders, and he rolled on his back, pulling me on top of him. This was the most perfect welcome I had ever woken up to in two and odds centuries and never, never in my whole damned existence full of murders and unspeakable deeds had I ever deserved it less. “I promised, yesterday, that I would make it up to you, didn't I ?” he purred seductively as he broke the kiss. And as I looked down, I saw that he was wonderfully aroused, my well-endowed child, and so was I, despite all my nagging guilt, for who could have resisted such a show as he had just put on ?

I would like to say that I almost spilled it all out then, my heart brimming as it was with love for him, that I almost confessed my crime against him, begged for his forgiveness, his punishment, any punishment that he saw fit, begged him to leave me and find someone else more worthy of him. But that would be a lie, for such a brave, decent option didn't even cross my wicked mind. Not with my Beloved all sprawled and lustful and inviting underneath me. It was so much easier then, to remember my more convenient promise, that I would make penance and atone it all by behaving like The Most Perfect Lover He Could Ever Wish For. And that's exactly what I did.

I kissed and licked and nipped and caressed and teased, following the Inverted Vampire Kama Sutra with the utmost textbook precision, if such a book had ever been written, and if it had not, I was quite ready to write it myself just so that I could, come Judgment Day and the fateful time for my wicked soul to be weighted, throw it in the face of God Almighty and his Fiery Angels and plead: “Yes, I am a Sinner! Yes, I am a worthless fiend! But did I not bow to my self-imposed penance? Did I not execute my penance tenfold? A hundredfold?”

And I daresay I did, most devotedly, for after a while a flushed, disheveled and lust-crazed Louis roughly shove me off him with a frustrated snarl, flung himself on his stomach by my side and hissed between clenched teeth in a commanding tone that suffered no objection “Now!”. He languidly laid his head down on the pillow then, peering at me sideways from under his mussed hair, and slowly, so slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, drew one of his knees up by his side in the most lascivious invitation, his wet tongue licking at his parted lips. Batting his eyelashes at me, he graciously bent his arms backwards, laying his hands palms up on his back, in a gesture unmistakably expressing that Monsieur desired to relinquish control, and desired it now. Delightful. So delightful. He was driving me crazy. I had all but forgotten about my crime, about my penance, about everything, I had all but forgotten that I had had him in this most despicable way, so much I wanted him now.   
Trembling madly, and using all my willpower to hide it for it would have ruined the show for him, I moved closer and my hand enclosed both his offered wrists in an iron grip, pressing him down. He did not even shudder, only bent his head slightly to look at me from below. His eyes were black, with merely a thin crown of green at the edge. I reached between his parted legs to fondle him roughly, and he moaned helplessly. I felt him twitch and noticed with satisfaction that he was already leaking slightly. “My, My! Aren't you very forward tonight, my Child?” I teased in mock severity, releasing him to lazily stroke his sensitive areas and the warm cleft between his cheeks with the tip of a finger. He only closed his eyes and buried his face in the bed, his breathing slightly ragged. Such control, such dignity even in this most undignified position, it was madness, it was torture, he was all but daring me, teasing me, forever out of my reach whatever the Hell I goddamn did. Almost angrily, I prodded at his opening, eliciting a most satisfying gasp of pain. At least a genuine reaction. I slashed my palm open with one sharp fingernail, causing rich thick blood to flow and, taking myself in hand, rubbed up and down his crease, asking sternly “Is this what you want my beautiful child?” He did not reply, but for a strangled little sob, but I saw the muscles of his backside twitch helplessly. Gently, I lay on him, tentatively resting against his opening, and whispered tenderly in his ear “Tell me what you want, Beloved, for I cannot guess ...” 

“I want you, you bastard! You!” he finally hissed furiously, giving up to his desperation “I even dream of you! Are you happy?” If I was happy ? God, yes! My heart was racing madly! I could not think of crime, treason, abuse or penance, how could I, blown away as I was by the entrancing thought of my Beloved dreaming of me, dreaming of me forcing myself upon his sleeping form, and finding this vision so arousing, so inspiring as to be begging me for more now? It was too much, and I pushed myself in him and we both moaned with mindless relief. 

“My Darling, my Beloved, my little virgin!” I chanted deliriously as I rammed savagely into him, both of us far too desperate by now to establish any kind of rhythm. Now, the last name was probably not factually true, not that I had any way of knowing for sure, for this was the one area of his mortal life about which Louis was uptightly secret, but it was certainly my most cherished fantasy, my Beloved possessed by no one before me, opening only for me, and, when he put on such a show as he had done before, I could easily trick myself into believing it! When I was at his feet, I could have believed damn well anything. 

“My Little Virgin! So tight! So tight for me, again, so soon!” 

“You bastard !” 

For the author of two bestsellers, I must confess to an unfortunate tendency to a very poor choice of words. Another piece of advice, while I'm at it: never give the Dark Gift to anyone smarter than you. You're only heading yourself for a big heap of troubles. For it dawned it all on him then, even through the veil of his frenzied lust, and he pieced it all together, my clever fledgling: his dream, my sorry choice of words, my earlier devoted behavior, almost sheepish when I should have brashly claimed my debt from him. And in less time than I needed to swear “Damn Me!”, I found myself expelled from Heaven like, before me, Lucifer and his sorry little clique of Fallen Angels.

I found myself flung on my back, two white, slender hands gripping my throat, a hissing, snarling demon straddling me. I could have freed myself with a mere flip of my hand, of course, but, looking at him just then, anyone would have thought this to be a very, very bad idea. A very foolish idea indeed. His fierce eyes were blazing green, witchy fire, his sharp, wicked fangs gleaming lethally in his face grotesquely distorted by fury, white as a skull. He looked positively like a savage demon from Hell, sent to Earth to unleash a mighty scourge of fire, death and pestilence and purge away the unworthy. And through the thick haze of my fear, for yes, right then, I feared him, my savage child, feared for my very life, I could not help but feel a powerful surge of fatherly pride. That I had crafted him from my very flesh and blood, this magnificent, lethal creature! Me, The Vampire Lestat, whose every enterprise seemed to inevitably degenerate into the worst chaotic fiasco! Fancy that! Yes, indeed, if I was to die now at the hands of my vengeful fledgling, at least I would die happy, brimming with pride for my greatest achievement! An accomplished man.

His fangs glistened dangerously as he growled through pursed lips mere inches from my face: “Did you feed me your blood, you bastard ?”

“No! Louis, Beloved, I swear! No! I would never, never do that! Never!” I gasped in panic and just as I said it I knew exactly just how much I meant it. Never, indeed, never for I knew with the utmost certainty that, should I ever do such a thing, he would walk away and never, never come back.

“I should think not” he uttered regally, like those powerful beings confident enough that the mere idea of going against their Expressed Will would be nothing less than an affront to the very Law of Nature, a physical aberration that surely would send the whole Universe off its orbit and swirling into dark, mindless chaos. His face was a white, smooth mask, just the merest hint of fangs showing, but his grip on my throat did not loosen. 

I stared up at him, at his fierce eyes piercing me, utterly fatalistic, bowing without reserve to the next expression of his wrath, whatever this might be. Finally, he moved off me but his icy gaze never left me and I knew without a trace of doubt that I had better keep still. Without warning, he flung my legs up and hilted himself into me in one violent thrust. He hissed sharply between his teeth as he did so for I had not been readied and I knew, for sure, that whatever pain was now stabbing my violated flesh, he was feeling it too as he forced his pliant, almost human self into the monstrous, marble thing that I had become. He gave a few violent thrusts, his teeth tensely clenched in pain, and I did my utmost to ignore the burning ache and make myself welcoming for him. It seemed to work for he soon built up a fast, aggressive rhythm, staring at me in cold challenge. I tried to lay my hands on his thighs, to make him know that I loved him, loved him without reserve, loved what he was doing to me, but he slapped them away with an angry snarl and I just lay still, looking at him in quiet awe.

In his harsh, manic thrusting, he was randomly hitting my very own special spot, enough to soon have me powerfully aroused, but too erratically for me to ever hope for any kind of release. Whether this was an elaborate kind of torture he had devised, or whether he just did not care and was simply eager to reach his peak and get the whole thing over with, I did not know. I lost myself in the sweet torture of burning lust without the faintest prospect of peace, lost myself in his fiercely burning eyes, lost myself in the power of my magnificent, feral child making me his, and I remembered then, in some sort of blinding religious awakening, remembered an old forgotten memory from my early days with my Louis in this godforsaken swamp that I had since learned to call my home.

Chevalier. Ridden by the Loas. I remembered my repulsed fascination, me, a man of Reason, child of the most Enlightened city in the world, as I watched the dark, savage slaves in their secret rituals, their very own sort of Sabbath. How one of them would hurl and scream in a terrifying fit of agony only to emerge a transformed, revered being, not a mere mortal anymore but a sacred vessel of flesh to carry the deeds of the Loas, the spirits. How the incarnated Loa would enjoy his little time on Earth by selecting someone among the dancers, often a fresh young priestess, and make them his, ride them, possess them, sending the chosen mortal into hurls of mind-blowing ecstasy. Chevalier. Ridden by the Loa. And that's how I felt as I laid helpless in sweet agony and let my Louis have his way with me. For he did not look like my Louis anymore, my sweet child, my tender lover, he looked like the very incarnation of the demonic core inside him, his vampiric nature made flesh, this very nature that was my most precious gift to him and that he had wasted so much time fighting.

Finally he released deep in me with a feral snarl, withdrew and moved away from me, curling himself on his side without sparing me a single glance.

I watched him for while then, watched the hypnotic movements of his back as he breathed deeply, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say. Finally I took a chance and moved closer, tentatively laying a gentle hand on his side.

Preternaturally fast, he jerked backwards and his shoulder collided violently with my jaw. Now let me explain the basics of vampiric physiology: when you drink powerful ancient blood, your flesh hardens beyond imagination. Bone, however, is just bone, it only heals faster. When somebody's shoulder-bone collides full speed with your jaw, it damn well hurts, ancient blood or not. Take my word for it.

He curled back in fetal position and I retreated, waiting in nagging anxiety for him to say or do something.

Finally, after a while, he spoke.

“Tell me what you felt, when you did it to me.” he asked, not moving, not looking at me, his voice detached, as though motivated by academic curiosity.

“Shame, Beloved! Terrible, terrible shame! I was not myself! I don't know what the Hell got into me!” I answered sheepishly, for that was the right answer wasn't it ? What the Hell was I supposed to answer to such a question? I had no idea. All I had was the nagging certitude that, should I give the wrong answer, he would get up, walk out, and never, never look back.

“Don't you dare lie to me!” he hissed furiously, before continuing in an icy voice “Such a thing was completely yourself and I know you enjoyed every bit of it!”

“Tell me what you felt, when you did it to me.” he demanded again after a few seconds of silence, his voice dangerously commanding, edgy.

“It was wonderful, it was Heaven, it was all I ever wanted! Don't you see it's all I ever want?” I cried in desperation, for why was he asking such a question, why was he playing such a sick game, if not to hear me confess how evil I was, how utterly beyond redemption, and finally, finally, gather the courage to walk out and leave me without regret. Yes, that was the last gift I could give him, his freedom from me and from his regrets, at least I could give him that.

“Tell me what you felt, when you did it to me.” he repeated again, in the same cryptic, maddening voice, and just when I was about to give in to my desperation, to ask him what the Hell it was that he wanted to hear, what the Hell it was that he wanted me to say, because whatever it was, I would say it right here, right now, if only he would stop this insane torture. Yes, just when I was about to explode and say all this and much more, he reached one of his hands backward and squeezed my balls viciously. I gasped in pain, shock and consternation.

“Tell me.” he ordered in a tone that suffered no discussion. His hand hovered over my balls, threatening to strike.

“I went back to bed to you, I moved you a bit to hold you and you didn't flinch, you didn't move, you were so helpless!” I blurted frantically, eager to do anything to please him, say anything to please him. I could feel blood sweat dripping on my forehead. “And I wondered why, you know, the instinct to strike at intruders, why you didn't do it. Is it because I made you ? Is it because you love me ?” I must confess a desperate note of pleading was starting to float in my voice by the time I got those humiliating last words out.

“You would like to know, wouldn't you ?” he mused dreamily, and was it me or could I hear a hint of cruel teasing ?

“Know what, Louis? Know what ?” I urged, tottering on the fine edge between despair and exasperation.

“Know whether I would have stopped you. If I didn't share your blood.” he explained, a malicious edge to his words.

“I don't know, Darling, I don't know!” I confessed desperately. And right then, indeed, I did not know anything about anything anymore.

“No you don't.” he confirmed with rightful satisfaction “I guess you'll never now. You had to push it, you sick bastard, but all for nothing because you'll never know.”

His hand closed on my balls again and I flinched, awaiting his vengeance, but instead the feather-light touch of a soft finger tentatively traced the edge of them. “Tell me what you felt, when you did it to me.” he asked once more, but this time, his voice was tentative, dangerously seductive. A siren's song irremediably bending me to his will, all the while offering no other promises than a sweet annihilation in the merciless depths of an ocean of wrath.

“I didn't mean to, please, Louis, please, believe me, I didn't mean to ...” I begged in a small voice, driven half insane by the feel of his finger now tracing the length of me, whether encouraging me to continue my confession, torturing me or threatening me, I could not tell. “I was horny ...” I blurted out, and he gave out a sharp, scornful little laugh at that “I was only going to jerk off, I swear, please believe me ...” Another bitter laugh from him, but his finger continued its soft, maddening teasing … “And I did! But then I felt you, and it was too much, I couldn't think anymore, and then it was done and it was too late ...” I finished in desperation, waiting for his wrath to obliterate me...

“Tell me what I felt, when you were in me.” he commanded in a throaty purr, and I gasped as his fingers started to stroke me harder.

“It felt like Heaven, it felt like home, it felt like I made you for this!” I confessed in sweet agony, too aroused to think about consequences any longer. What kind of sick game was he playing? Was it even a game?

“Did it? Did you ?” he asked in a voice that aimed to sound sharp, but came out slightly too ragged...

“Yes! No! I don't know! I made you because I wanted you, you know it, you fool! I wanted you the very first time I saw you, I always want you!” I was half sobbing by now, under the dual stress of his stroking and his interrogation.

“Do you want me now, Lestat ?” he asked, and I moaned as he said my name. He had the falsely sweet, cruelly teasing voice of a toxic lolita, but was it me or could I hear a hint of fearful doubt, of urgent longing underneath?

“Yes, yes, Beloved! You know I do!” I sobbed in desperation, leaning shamelessly into the touch of his hand.

“Come on, then ...” he invited softly, but he didn't wait for me to oblige as he took a firm hold of me and moved backwards to impale himself swiftly. I let out a strangled wail then, of delight, surprise or relief, I did not know, probably all three, for my mind was swirling and swirling in a fiery, dizzying pit of Hellfire, and all I knew was that I was in my Louis again, and it felt good and right and nothing else mattered. I grabbed his hip and starting thrusting in and out of him urgently, sucking forcefully at his jugular, but he bent his arm backward, grabbed my hair and pulled me away from his neck violently. “Don't you dare stop !” he hissed between his teeth.

“Stop what, My Love, stop what ?” I begged in confused frustration.

“Talk to me!” he ordered sharply between clenched teeth “You always blabber, Lestat, here's your big time for show! Tell me how much you want me ! Tell me how I make you feel!” And he viciously clenched me with his inner muscles, eliciting a moan of mindless delight from me, as though he was trying to reduce me to an incoherent rag unable to satisfy his latest whim … Trust a brainiac to want to talk in the most inappropriate circumstances!

I gathered whatever was left of my wits, then, and slowed down to lazy, languid thrusts, and started whispering urgently in his ear: “My Beloved Child, my Precious Darling! How I long to be in you, my Love ...” He purred softly in appreciation and moved my hand from his hip to himself. I started stroking him languorously in time with my thrusts, and he just lay his hand on mine as I did, not trying to control the rhythm, just touching me. “I wanted you the very first time I saw you, my Darling, you were all drunk, and swearing and smelly, but I knew you were perfect and I wanted you with me for ever...” He let out a giddy little laugh and took my other hand in his, twining our fingers and pressing my palm to his lips. “Being in you is being in Heaven, my Love, I never want anything else, never wish for anything else...” He clenched me hard then, and I moaned in his ear in gratitude. I started to thrust harder, deeper, rubbing myself languidly against his sensitive spot. It was sweet agony, delicious torture, I felt like I could die from unreleased tension... I could feel him becoming urgent too, painfully aroused by the twin stimulation of my hand and my thrusts, and he started licking the palm of my hand, sucking at my fingers. “I always want you, I can't bear not to have you, you're my Beautiful One, you're mine, and you know it...” I purred more urgently, aggressively possessive, but he did not protest, he just squeezed my hand to force me to stroke harder and started to lick languidly at my wrist. “When I felt you open for me last night, I could not think, Beloved, I just had to have you! I remembered you all gasping and begging and mine and I just had to have you! Nobody gets to see you like this, my Love, you're mine, Louis, you're mine, I made you just so I could see you like this, make you feel like this, and have you...” I was fondling him aggressively now, half to pleasure him and half to pull him closer to me so I could reach deeper inside him, rub myself harder against him. “I made you for this, Louis, you're mine, this is your rightful place, and you know it, you know I will never let you run away again...” I threatened, desperate for release, but he did not protest, indeed he let out a strangled cry of ecstasy, as though he wholeheartedly agreed with everything I'd said. I was half-crazed with lust now, not really able to say anything coherent, but he did not care any longer, impaling himself aggressively at me, sobbing softly with my wrist in his mouth, as though mourning for what he would now deny himself. I felt his front teeth gnaw at my vein and, through the fiery red haze of my own lust, I panicked, prayed and begged, please God do not let him bite me! It was my deepest longing in the world, that we could become one again like we did before, this perfect union, the blood circle, the ultimate expression of our love, but no, not like this, not in a desperate moment of crazed longing, when he would instantly regret it past the burning satisfaction, and blame me, and hate me. He was using up the very last remnants of his self control, gnawing uselessly with his front teeth, still keeping his fangs in check, but I could feel him becoming more violent, I feared he would not resist much longer and I bit him in a desperate attempt to calm him down. 

I bit his jugular and the intoxicating taste of his blood flooded my mouth like a burning torrent of fire, and I was in Heaven, yes, truly, truly Heaven, a pulsing, burning, blinding Heaven, and I felt this miracle, the long gone touch of his mind as I drank greedily from him, and I gazed in fearful awe down the bottomless pit of his own longing, and I burnt in the flames of his own ecstasy and I cried helplessly at the feel of his love. I felt gently lulled soon, as the swoon took me over, and the delayed ripple of his own swoon bathed me, and, distantly, as though it did not matter anymore when faced with the miracle of the Blood, I felt that I came in him, a mind blowing orgasm but nothing, nothing compared to the miracle of the swoon, and I felt him come too, in my hand and our linked minds, and I could not tell whether he repeatedly whispered that he loved me, over and over again, like an heretic mantra, or whether this was but a wishful figment of my fevered mind.

But soon, through the burning haze of my ecstasy, I heard the hypnotizing beat of his heart slow down and I knew that I had to stop. With heart wrenching grief, I felt his mind once more seal itself to me as I withdrew my fangs from him, gently nursing the wound with my tongue until it closed. He was still under the spell of his swoon, lost to the world, and I gently withdrew my now limp organ from him, and laid him on his back, arranging the pillow under his head, caressing his mussed hair away from his eyes, devotedly licking the blood sweat from his face and the bloody semen from his body.

“How I love you, my Precious, my Own ...” I whispered reverently in his ear “If only you knew ...” But of course he didn't, lost as he was deep inside his own mind, and that was the only reason I was able to say it aloud …

Finally he emerged, his eyelashes fluttering, and just lay there, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. I raised myself on my elbow and just looked at him, resting a soothing hand on his shoulder.

“Sometimes I feel that I am dead.” He finally said in a peaceful, contemplative voice. “Sometimes, I feel that I died all those years ago in that alleyway when I first gave in to you, and got damned for it, and that this, all this ...” He made a vague gesture with his hand then laid it, oddly soothing, on my hip “ is but a terrible hallucination designed to make me pay.”

And somehow these cryptic, stoic words hurt more, stung more than any rightful recrimination he could have made. I don't know why you hurt me so, Lestat. You are a selfish, abusive fiend, Lestat. I don't know why I put up with you, Lestat. I don't know why I always come back to you. You deserve to spend your eternity alone, abandoned and shriveled. I don't know for the life of me what it is that I see in you that makes me come back.

“And then I think, if this is Hell …” he continued, speaking more to himself than to me “if all these are the tortures of Hell, then I could very well have picked a worse lot … a much much worse lot ...”

And for once, there was just nothing I could have answered to this. I felt oddly blank and empty. But not in a distressing way. In a cleansed, purified way. Cleansed from all the debris of my own delusions, from all the oppressive flotsam and jetsam of existence, until nothing else was left but the very core of myself. And I understood then, why the ancient Greeks believed in the cathartic power of savage abandon, of giving in without fear to a lust-crazed frenzy. And possibly too, the Children of Darkness and their Sabbaths all those years ago. 

He snuggled close to me, burying his face in my neck as though I was his savior, not his eternal remorseless abuser, and I embraced him tight, crushing him to my heart, my merciless tormenter that always seemed to drive out the very worst instincts from me, my twice murderer, my darling child, my eternal beloved. And I saw, then, that the very core of myself was to be entwined with him, loving and hurting each other again, and again, and again, while the whole world around us mercilessly ticked itself into oblivion. I saw it and I saw that it was good. And true.

I cannot tell how long we remained like this, not speaking, clinging to each other like the only survivors of an apocalypse. I think we may have dozed off. At some point, I felt Louis stir in my embrace, his hand that had gently been laying on my chest moving to the back of my neck and I felt a gentle kiss on my jaw.

“Lestat, I have to ...” he murmured apologetically.

“... attend to some personal necessities.” I finished darkly for him.

“Yes” he answered softly against my lips.

I looked at him then, and realized how gaunt he looked, his face hollow underneath his perfect cheekbones, dark circles around his striking eyes. I felt a pang of guilt and distress and held him tight, rocking him slightly against me, soothing his hair and peppering his face with light kisses. In my passion, I had taken too much from him, draining him to the edge of painful thirst.

“Louis, Beloved, I'm so sorry...” And just that once, I really meant it.

He looked up at me then, with such love and trust in his eyes that I could not believe my transgression against him just mere hours ago, and, taking a firm hold of my chin, forced me to look straight into his eyes.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He said earnestly. “You did offer me your blood. Several times. Sometimes rather forcefully...” The merest hint of a mischievous smile at those last words.

“Someone will just have to pay for it, like every night.” he finished darkly. And I did not feel like chiding him for his sarcasm.

I helped him up and led him to the shower and gently, carefully, we washed the blood and other remnants of our frenzy off each other, stopping now and then for chaste, childlike kisses. We had no drive left for anything more. No need for anything more.

We dried each other and I selected a shirt for him to wear. A plain black silk shirt I had worn a couple of times. He did not like new clothes, they scratched, and smelt funny and made irritating noises when he moved, or so he said. He smelt it when I gave it to him, then leaned against me and sniffed at my neck, his soft breath caressing my skin electrically. Then he slipped the shirt on and silently waited for me to button it for him.

We left the flat hand in hand, him, for once, paying no heed to the mortals around us. This was my beloved New Orleans, anyway, the Sodom and Gomorrah of the Brave New World, and the mortals paid no heed to us. We walked, not quite aimlessly, headed in the vague direction where I knew he dwelt, and each step caused a great invisible string to pull at my heart a bit tighter.

Finally he stopped in front of an overgrown yard that I knew was not his, took both of my hands in his and looked up to face me. 

“This is not your house” I said, confused.

“No, this is where you leave me.” he replied calmly.

“At least, let me walk you back home. Let me make sure you're safe.” I objected, with more pleading than I cared for cracking through the angry, commanding veneer.

“No.” he repeated stubbornly.

“I promise I won't watch.” I sighed, exasperated, for I knew perfectly well why he wanted to be left alone in the middle of nowhere.

“Yes you would” he replied softly, and was it a wishful fantasy or was a fond smile floating fleetingly on his lips ? “And maybe you will anyway, but I won't make it easy for you.”

“Why do you always have to run off ?” I erupted “I made you! It's my blood in you! I know damn well you have to kill some damn mortal every night! I've just spent a whole damn night watching you lust and beg for it ! Why the Hell do you always have to hide from me? Why can't you just stay put, for God's sake, and make it all easier for both of us?”

But I knew he could read the desperate pleading underneath my harsh words for he said in a voice where floated love, pity and, yes, I could swear it, painfully repressed temptation: “Somehow, my Love, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

He reached up to brush my lips with a feather-light kiss and, in the blink of an eye, he was gone, disappearing through the lush tropical greenery eerily bathed in the street light golden glow.

Farewell my Lovely.

I waited till the leaves, sent into a wild gigue by my Beloved’s quick caress, settled once more in their own gentle rhythm under the warm evening breeze, till the very last remnant of my Louis’ presence was mercilessly obliterated from the world under my eyes, then I turned on my heels and walked away to lose myself in the city.

FIN


End file.
